


The Castles In the Snow

by morgana67



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-01-30 03:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12645291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgana67/pseuds/morgana67
Summary: Winter is Here!  After the Purple Wedding, Tyrion Lannister has been trying to carve up a destiny for himself out of the ashes of his own soul in Essos.  In the meantime, his wife (if only in name) bids to control the Vale.  Jon is dead and warging, or is he?  Cersei and Margaery fight for the Throne in such a way that only third parties are likely to benefit.  Lady Stone Heart roams the Earth whereas her daughter, Arya, learns how to give troubled souls the ultimate gift.  Somewhere between the books and the show, the drama continues.





	1. Prologue - The Washer At the Ford

PROLOGUE: THE WASHER AT THE FORD 

They rode north by northeast in sepulchral silence, a waning moon their only sentinel.

“We’ll find shelter soon enough” Brienne spat out in response to Ser Jaime’s unspoken complaints.

His expression appeared hard to read; taciturn, awfully guarded, yet not truly unyielding. Still, it had a knowing quality to it, she couldn’t help but noticing; something she found both reassuring and disquieting at once.

“The horses need to rest” he stated.

“As do we”

Silence begot them once again. A half burnt structure that could have been house, or inn, or granary could be seen in the horizon. A testimony to the brutal civil war the Seven Kingdoms had been fighting. There was no roof to it, but at least it appeared to have walls. Their night encampment. 

After the sense of dread that had engulfed them both at the sight of the devastation at Pennytree, nothing could surprise the Kingslayer. A burnt structure was nothing new. Still, despite professing to believe in neither gods nor omens, the sudden presence of a large flock of ravens encircling them did not help his mood.

Throughout their short journey, Brienne had tried to keep their interaction to a minimum. He had seen through her lies, she was sure, and the least she said, the least she would have to keep up with the dishonourable pretence. She wanted nothing more than to warn him, than to be true to him and to put an end to her unwilling betrayal, alas, she could not. She had made a solemn promise to someone to whom she had once sworn her sword and her loyalty. Besides, the lives of innocents were at stake.

Still, far fetched as a miraculous escape sounded, she prayed to the Seven that her clumsily concocted story had not been believed and that his sense of self-preservation would make him find a way out. 

He had been right in his pointed remarks in those baths than now felt like a lifetime ago. 

“Too many oaths indeed! “ she muttered to herself.

___________________________________________________________

After the two stallions had been watered and fed, they settled for the evening. The humans shared hard cheese and hard salted mutton and he offered her wine.

“I do seldom drink, my Lord”

“My Lord? My father was a Lord, my little brother is a Lord, me? No, Ser Jaime, just Ser Jaime, or better, just Jaime… I’m a knight just like you, but unlike you I’m a knight without honour.” 

He was jesting. She smiled. It was good to see that whatever he had guessed or sensed had not make him lose his bizarre sense of humour. He was yet again displaying his customary playful arrogance, the sort of careless arrogance she had, against her better disposition, come to enjoy from him. The annoying arrogance he shamelessly displayed before he lost his sword hand, but perhaps it was nothing but nerves. Was he testing her even? Was this his invitation for her to come clean?

She smirked but took the cup of wine he offered nonetheless. Yet, silence felt upon them once again. 

“Wench, drink! or are we to spend what it may well be our last night in this world sober and morose?” he taunted.

She took a large gulp hoping to hide both her guilt and her fears but her sapphire blue eyes betrayed her. She closed them for a moment unable to continue the charade any longer.

Jaime understood that she was too conflicted to offer a confession. He had trusted that she had chosen the right path, the honourable path, yet it was not in his nature to trust blindly that things would work out for the best. He needed specifics. He was not prepared to walk into a trap without having at least explored and exhausted possible ways out, for both of them.

“My lady,” he whispered with uncustomary softness and courtesy “where are we headed to?”

She sighted in defeat and placed “Oathkeeper” on her lap. This almost ceremonial move did not go unnoticed.

“Jaime, I will never forget the day you gifted me this, what it meant to me or the mission you entrusted me with. We both promised one woman the same thing but you passed the task on to me and, no matter what the price, I will fulfil my promise.”

“The Others take you, woman! We are alone in this place forsaken by the gods. If you truly had found Lady Sansa why are you being so secretive? And why on the Seven Hells would the Hound kill her unless “I” come with you alone? I cannot see what quarrel the Hound can have with me. He deserted because my little brother forgot his fear of fire whilst preparing the defence of the city. He has no reason to go out of his way to kill me, and why else would he want me to come along? Look, I have had more than a few narrow escapes in my life, I may get lucky again…” “we may get lucky together” he rephrased “but I do need to know what I am going to face. I will not ask again, where are we headed for?”

“Very well, the Brotherhood!”

He could not keep at bay hysterical laughter.

“Hear me out! she protested.

“Fair is fair I suppose. You have heard me out before. I owe you that much” he conceded.

She seemed to hesitate for a moment and then seemingly out of the blue, she passed the Valyrian sword onto him. His eyes were ignited with horror and indignation.

“Oh, no, oh, no. Do not even think me capable…”

“I am unarmed and I would not oppose you or attempt to fight you, Jaime Lannister, I command you: escape with your life!” she pleaded. 

After a very brief pause in which she tried to read in his eyes his internal monologue, she continued “Thus, if you still feel bound so, you can continue the search for the Stark girls. You passed the task onto me, I am now passing it back,” she attempted to reason.

“Very heroic of you,” he mocked “but coward as many may think me I will not save my skin by killing the one person who showed me that there was still some good left in me.”

They gazed at each other so intensely this time that they both understood that that particular negotiation was at an end.

“Brienne, who are you protecting this time?”

He knew her too well, she thought. She smiled very faintly. “No one of real import to the realm or its politics. People who had not partaken in the game, innocents..”

This answer did not surprise Jaime, yet these words sent a strong pang to his insides. Had their roles been reversed he was certain he would have put his companion’s life well above that of random no-ones. For a split second he felt aggrieved despite the fact that she seemed eager to allow him a reprieve. They had saved each other’s lives before and yet his life had been of less value to her than hers to him, at least when she set off to find him . This thought, fleeting as it was, brought about the collision of two very powerful emotions; the realisation that, in spite of his own denial, he had developed strong feelings for the lady knight and memories of the innocent boy he had once been willing to sacrifice for the sake of his twin and their children.

His expression became very dark, almost wild, like that of a predator, provocative…

There was compassion in her eyes but also self-loathing. He could take it no more. Neither could she. The unbearable tension that emanated from both their thoughts and feelings was seconds away from a powerful explosion. There was silence, a silence born from unspoken passions bursting at the seams. 

He was now determined to be left to whatever fate she had in mind for him, about to confess that his life meant very little for him without her guidance and companionship, that he had done despicable things and that he deserved death, that he was ready…

She read him like a scroll. She wanted to explain more, to formulate possible plans for the bloody confrontation they would face in the morrow and yet the timing for that was wrong, utterly wrong. She was way too charged with something that could not be assuaged.

Without warning, she jumped atop him. In that instance, they both forgot their purposes in life. Only the lack of time and their impending deaths mattered and well, something else…

He forgot his vows, his sister; that tall ugly woman was making him feel alive, even if in reality they both faced certain death.

A maiden as she was, she was strong and powerful. She had dreamt of this moment, fantasized more likely. In her naïve scenarios he was gentle and so was she. Here and now, without willing it, she was overpowering a very strong man; not that he was complaining. Her mouth was the crater of an erupting volcano but he did not resist. The magma emanated from her womb and breasts and rapidly reached his cock. He wanted to go slow, to treat her right disregarding where she was about to lead him to in the morrow. Years of concealed desire were tilting the scales. He had never fully stopped desiring Cersei. His love for his sister, on the other hand, had been dead and buried for a very long time. His love for Brienne of Tarth was fresh and anewed!

They wrestled in the hay, just like they had wrestled with true swords, on a bridge, long ago, much more playing than fighting. He had wanted then to give himself to her superiority but he had been too attached to his competitive ways. 

They enveloped each other in caresses and thrusts. Until it was done and she was bleeding. That brought him back to the time his sister had bleed from his doings, for the first time, such a long time ago.

This time, it was the lady who patted him in he back and passed the wine onto him.

_______________________________________________________________________________

The morrow came, as it always does for lovers…

In their way to their fated rescue mission they came upon a stream. Upon the stream was what would appear to be a very old lady.

Brienne screamed at once!

“Good morrow to you newly weds,” the washer greeted.

Brienne went pale. Jaime held her hand and spoke words of greeting to the old hack or whatever she was.

“She’s undead” Brienne whispered to him.

Before he had a chance to take a good look, the cloaked figured announced, albeit with difficulty “My Lord, I do believe we’ve met. I am Catelyn Stark.”


	2. Alayne Stone - Masquerade - Chapter I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is mainly a background chapter encompassing the books and the excerpt from "The Winds of Winter" we so far have on Sansa. I love the show but hated her plot with Ramsay, so going for Vale here (as per the books), although in other instances I am going to go for show lol
> 
> After my last chapter, about which I will explain more about in due course, I realised that I did not offer enough background for those of you who are show watchers only, so I tried to provide more on this one.
> 
> I hope, though, that despite this, this chapter has a bit of a "bite" and is not too boring...

Alayne Stone contemplated her reflection in the looking glass as she readied herself for the day ahead. 

Despite greatly admiring the brunette tresses that some of her friends displayed, that dyed black hair did not suit her, she decided. If anything, it made her look paler than she already was. It was striking, she was sure, but too harsh on her complexion. She wondered if a medium or dark chestnut shade would have served her better. “I used to be too vain for my own good”, she self- reprimanded, “mayhaps I still am.” She faintly laughed at her own thoughts. She remembered with sad fondness how, her sister in particular, used to tease her for it. She sighted; “Arya, where are you now?” she muttered to herself almost as in prayer.

Being thought of as the bastard daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish was not to her liking either; yet another test to whatever remained of her high born aloofness and northern righteousness. For the time being, thought, there was nothing to be done for it. After all, it was a small price to pay for keeping the executioner’s block at bay.

She had tried to embrace her new role in the Vale in the spirit of what Margaery Tyrell had advised her just before her forced marriage to Tyrion: “Women in our position must make the best of our circumstances.” 

It could not be denied that the Lord Protector doted on “his daughter.” Her word was his command and, materially at least, she wanted for nothing; not even for the huge dowry she had never asked for and could not make use of, as long as her lawful husband lived.

Much and more had happened since she had been spirited from the Red Keep amidst the confusion that followed Joffrey’s death. 

Less than an hour into her escape she had realised that it have all been carefully orchestrated, that she had jumped from a hot pan into the fire. The memories of that night were disturbing at best. Poor, old, drunken Ser Dontos! Despite him having sold her to Lord Baelish for coin, she could not help but feel pity for the man… that arrow to his chest…. And then to learn that she had been tricked into carrying the poison that had killed the King! To learn of Tyrion’s arrest! She had prayed for her little Lord husband and even now that she knew he was safe far away, she could not help but wish she could, one day, offer him at least an explanation, an apology for having plotted to leave him when he had been nothing but kind to her; an apology for being such a fool! 

The inhabitants of the Eyrie had descended to the slightly milder geography and climate of the Gates of the Moon in a foible attempt to mitigate the harshness of a fast approaching winter. Lord Nestor Royce and his family were hosting Lord Arryn and his retinue. Little Lord Robert was as difficult as ever. He was taken with her well enough but that was part of the issue. That and the fact that Lord Baelish was pushing a betrothal between herself and a distant cousin of the Lord of the Vale who, due to a complicated, and all but extinct, line of succession, was now Robin’s heir. 

Robin had, rather openly, voiced his concerns about this heir; Ser Harrold Hardyng. Her cousin was somewhat convinced that he was just waiting for him to die. In all truth, Lady Alayne thought that to be a probability. What had surprised her though was the fact that the little lording, young and sickly as he was, and not someone one could call particularly shrewd, suspected so.

Deep in those thoughts, Alayne sat on the window seat, embroidering, when Lady Myranda Royce, Lord Nestor’s daughter, made an entrance. Myranda, Randa for short, was a feisty young woman slightly older than Alayne and the only noble lady close to her age in residence. She was rather the extrovert and she had actively encouraged a fast growing friendship, much to the dismay of Alayne’s “Lord father”. She was more often than not in high spirits. Today was no different. 

“Alayne, what do you make of my new gown?” she asked swinging herself around in a whirlpool of excitement.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” replied Alayne somewhat absent-mindedly.

“Aren’t you excited about the tourney? “asked Myranda encouragingly. “After all, it was your idea!”

“Of course,” she replied with a faint smile and as much feigned enthusiasm as she could muster, fearing it was evident that her heart wasn’t in it.

At first, the whole notion had come to her in a desperate attempt to cheer up Sweet Robin, who was ever so enthralled with the stories about his brave ancestors she read to him at bedtime. He was still grieving badly for his mother, much more profusely than the average orphan chid at his age would do. The Lady Lysa had indulged him to the point of almost no return, so much so that most nights he insisted that Alayne shared his bed until he fell asleep. She used to stay with him for an hour or so, reading to him, soothing him … and there had been a marked improvement in his health and behaviour, she thought. Still, he would wet the bed regularly, at 9 years of age, and not knowing any different, oftentimes he sought her teats to feed upon.

“What am I to do with you?” Myranda teased, grabbing hold of her friend’s hand and almost startling her. “You must hasten, the rest of the competitors will be here soon! Harry the Heir among them…” she added tentatively.

Alayne had to inwardly admit that now that the tournament was happening for real, she was apprehensive. For one thing, although most attendees were expected to be from the Vale, there was no reason for a hedge knight or anyone else, from wherever their province, not to try their luck at least at the Melee and there was a still a price on her head… for regicide no less!

Also, if truth were to be told, Harry the Heir was a complication she could well do without. What is she didn’t please him? On top of the humiliation that could come with it, if she did not please him, she could not afford, in her present circumstances, to disappoint the Lord Protector. In reality, despite the mummers’ play, she was a married woman who could not be further wed in the eyes of any gods. Yet, she was pretty certain that under her new identity no one would bring the issue to light or protest… no just yet at least…

The tourney competitors had started to arrive and the atmosphere was rather festive despite the changing weather and the troubles of the realm.

 _______________________________________________

Her introduction to her “intended” had gone far from well. 

Upon suddenly coming across Lady Anya and her entourage and the very Harry indeed, she had attempted to compose herself and to offer to show him to his accommodations. 

“He was comely enough” she thought, still… experience had told her that comeliness was not everything. Yet again, good looks and good hearts were not mutually exclusive…

But he was rude; very rude to her indeed.

Even Myranda was shocked. “Why would Littlefinger’s bastard’s taking me anywhere could possibly please me?” he asserted, or something tantamount. The exact words were lost on her, the meaning was not!

Humiliated as she felt, Alayne realised something else, in her mind and interpretation… that up-jumped young man was protesting too much… A knight with two bastards who, he himself (at least for now) depended on the Vale's coin in general, and relied more specifically on “her father,” would know better than to act like that. He knew who she truly was, she had no doubt, and was making a great big show of “not knowing”… In addition, he was playing a “lady’s game, namely “hard to get”. And play she could.

Likely Petyr Baelish must have disclosed her identity behind close doors, or else the betrothal would be just one for money; not unheard off, but pretty unusual for someone potentially as high up as Harry could become upon Robin’s death…

So, she would play…

She took a look at Myranda’s cleavage in the way ser Harry would have done and smiled wickedly, if ever so slightly…

“Randa,” Alayne approached. “Fancy playing a game?” she winked “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,
> 
> Just a little note. I would love to hear from you, even if it is brutal constructive criticism but I would love to see your comments, whether you love or hate my story so far ;)


	3. Chapter II - Barristan - Honour and Blood

The Pyramid could not feel any drier, even at night-time, with the sun down and the shutters wide open... It was airless… as if someone had vacuumed the life out of it! 

Daenerys was gone and so was the cheer. 

Gone were the days when the Targaryen Queen, surrounded by former slave children and their hostage noble counterparts, bathed in the terrace, allowing the fish to nibble, or so she told the children, on her feet. Times when a piece of fruit rested on one of her hands and a glass of Arbor gold on the other. Times, when he, Barristan Selmy, her Hand, without willing to pray, had, by accident, spied upon her talking to a lover and had reminded himself that he had been young once.

But all that was gone. She had disappeared into the wilderness with Drogon on toe. Her lover, Daario Naharis, had been taken hostage and he, Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold, as they had called him in Westeros, had only Tyrion Lannister to brainstorm with.

The gods only knew how that son of a bitch, or mayhaps, son of a demon, had made it thus far. Still, he had made it thus far and, in justice, aside from his frustration, he had no real reason to think ill of the dwarf. Trouble though was that the man was clearly an alcoholic. Still, it was not just the drink, he had to admit, the youngest Lannister had always drunk in excess, but the depressive state he was in. 

Fair was fair, Barristan thought. Tyrion had arrived speaking for the Second Sons, accompanied by a fellow female dwarf he had rescued, apparently, from somewhere in the pits, reporting they had been enslaved but had managed to escape. The girl had died of a fever a few morrows after. The little Lord had insisted that they had been nothing but friends; still, he clearly was grieving and was not completely right in the head. Barristan concluded that her passing must have had something to do with his mental state but mayhaps it had just been "the straw that broke the camel's back". All he knew is that Tyrion was not any longer the man he had met in Kings Landing; not by far.

In the capital, Lord Tyrion had displayed the arrogance and hedonism one could only equate with a life of privilege. Here, he was very much a shadow of himself.

Of course, Tyrion had allegedly, even admittedly, killed his own sire, and that could explain many things too… He had not enquired too closely as to his reasons but, having known the Lannister patriarch for many years, he suspected that there had, likely, been good ones. For one thing, it was common knowledge, even in Essos, that him and his young Stark wife had been blamed for Joffrey’s poisoning, whether rightly or not the knight couldn’t say, although he had a hunch that there had been more to it than it met the eye. Furthermore, for what he had heard much before Tyrion reached them, Tywin had done nothing to see his son cleared of the crime. Still there was something more … something … that was torturing the little Lord into near madness. When in his cups, he had taken to asking random people if they knew where whores went. Of course no one took him seriously but Selmy was convinced that, in the little man’s head, that meant something for sure.

Selmy needed a helper and one that was "compos mentis" at least most of the time. Still, the little lion was bright enough to understand that he could neither be inebriated all the time, nor on the brink of taking his own life. He was undeniably smart when he put his mind to it, hence even with the Queen now missing, he retained the position she had given him in her Council. Barristan Selmy had voiced no complaints, especially given the fact that he seldom trusted their “supporters” from the high echelons of Meereen. Tyrion was a great strategist and even a better diplomat. Refusing to accept the use of his skills would have been fool's work. But what could they do with him in that state?

“Talking to him could be a start, he reflected." After all, he had been forced out of Westeros by injustice, just as he, himself, had been. Ser Jorah was another matter, but then again, it was more than clear that Mormont was now faithful to “his Queen."

“What a mess, and what a motley crew of unlikely bedfellows Daenerys had enlisted!” Selmy thought. He wasn’t a young man and, on the balance of probabilities, his life would be cut short before too long. He hoped it would happen just as he had lived, sword in hand; but one way or another, without wanting to be overly superstitious, he expected his end was near and that this estranged Lannister Lord was his likely successor. As the Hand of Daenerys Targaryen, he could not fail her! If Tyrion Lannister was the likely nominee after him, he better ensure he would do his duty well. An open discussion was in order and he vowed to the gods to answer any questions the dwarf may have for him, and he knew they were like to be many.

He found him, as always, working and drinking both. How this man could do both successfully puzzled him! The evidence thought indicated that Tyrion managed it very well, like as not, out of habit.

“My Lord….”

“Come along, Ser Barristan, join me,” Tyrion greeted in what would appear a rather jovial tone. 

“What is it that worries you the most, Ser Barristan?”

The old knight almost smiled at that. If someone could read moods, in his cups or not, it was Tyrion.

“Your state of health, partly… if you are to serve our Queen…”

Tyrion dismissed that with a colloquial “yeah, I know, I’m a drunk, but my drinking alone won’t get us kill, I mean, it hasn’t done thus far…”

“Flirt with your own shadows as you like, my Lord, but we are in need of your full faculties here.”

“Fine, disapprove as you may.” Water for Ser Barristan, he ordered the cupbearers with a wink. However, that put an end to Tyrion's playful tone. “Now about the locusts…” the little man started tentatively.

“He tried to kill our queen!!!” Selmy was incensed.

“I thought the very same, at the time…”

What did he mean by “at the time…?” A cloud of doubt and fear hovered over the old knight. Not fear from the Lannister, certainly not that, fear of having erred. Still, for all his noble courage he couldn’t get himself to admit the possibility.

“You drink and dream too much, my Lord.”

“You imprisoned a man who, granted, we may both loath, on circumstantial evidence, very fine circumstantial evidence indeed. Not saying I want him as King, Gods no! Still, I was convicted on more seemingly sound evidence than that and it was still untrue! The Queen dislikes him too, but she had no choice but to marry him if she was to go for peace…”

“Lannister, you are a new comer here. Peace here is folly.”

“As oftentimes is in Westeros. Still, you want me to be your successor, provided I am sober. Okay, I am not exactly sober or exactly drunk right now, but if it is my counsel you seek: the Shavepate is playing you!”

It was hard to cut Tyrion’s discourse in full flow at the best of times. On this occasion, he didn’t even attempt it or wish for him to stop.

“Do you remember Lord Baelish?” Tyrion appeared to digress. “He has my wife.” He sounded bitter, the knight could feel that.

“The Lady Sansa Stark?” Selmy repeated almost absent-mindedly, stating the obvious as he tried to second guess where this was going. He wanted to ask how he could be so sure but thought better of it, for they had more pressing matters in the here and now.

“Yes, but that won't last for ever…” “Still, is she wishes to find his accommodations for her future suitable, fine by me. I am happy to set her free from our marriage if that is what she wants. We did not consummate,” he disclosed.

“No need to tell me, my Lord.”

“My apologies, I went totally off topic,” Tyrion continued, "the Shavepate is not dissimilar to Littlefinger, though,” he took a break from talking, for breath it would appear, and resumed, "Skahaz mo Kandaq went to Danny's side soon enough. A peace, not matter how fragile, between her and the Harpy is an obstacle to his revenge. It is known", he said paraphrasing the Dothraki Handmaidens , "that there is bad blood between the lesser nobility and the high Pyramids. Think of Dorne!!! Granted, Dorne is not minor nobility, but still… Oberyn championed for me for a chance at that! Not that I was complaining, given the circumstances… but he died of his thirst… sad really, but no matter. If there is one thing that this trip to Essos has shown me is that revenge is overrated. I had my revenge, or some measure of it, and I could spit upon it!!! The kind of whore who, like the Iron Bank, you are always indebted to no matter what, that is what revenge is!!! " he ranted, "Now justice, like serving justice at your own Hall to keep the peace, I guess, is another thing..." "I know you think me half mad and half mad I was when I arrived here, for sure. Rest assured, not anymore."

Ser Barristan looked into both Tyrion's eyes, almost in shock at his rantings, yet his eyes appeared to speak not just with truth but determination.

“I hope this is not the case,” Tyrion went on, “but if your fatalistic thoughts are right and you die before me, you can consider yourself blessed. This is going to get very nasty indeed; what, with Victarion now offering a fleet to a Queen we cannot make resurface, the Yunkaii defeated but still counting on yet to come support from Volantis, her King in the dungeons, her lover captured, many free companies growing restless…” “This is indeed the highest challenge I have come across, especially with the monarch gone and two dragons we don't know how to control in chains.”

“Lord Lannister,” Barristan was formal here, “the Dornishman sought the dragons and died…”

“He won't be the first and won;t be the last and they will die trying,” Tyrion commented unsurprised.

“But not you, ser.”

“And pray, why in the Seven Hells not?”

“Very well, if I don’t tell you now, I fear I 'll never will…”

“Sounds ominous,” Tyrion jested, although his body language seemed somewhat tense.

This time he took a large gulp of the strong wine Tyrion had been offering him all evening, aside the water. 

“You have handled the dragons without a hitch, my Lord, and not just when the Queen was here…”

“So has Misandei,” Tyrion argued.

"Misandei is the Queen’s Chief Handmaid, in the Queen’s own words, her most trusted adviser; with all due respect, she has the Queen’s consent, you have not!”

Tyrion’s gaze upon him was penetrating although not devoid of kindness. Barristan could perceive almost a very faint smile in the dwarf's lips and no small amount of anticipation.

“My Lord,” Selmy started, almost regretting having begun. Seek a good Maester on this, for I am no authority…”

Tyrion frowned, “authority on what, if I may be so bold?”

“Your parentage…”

Tyrion smiled. “Oh, I have heard this one, mainly from servants at the Rock; that the Mad King sired me, that that was the reason Queen Rhaella dismissed my mother as Chief Handmaiden?” mayhaps why my father took the city by treachery...”

“Yes, my Lord…” Barristan almost spat "but hear me out, I knew your Lady mother too and she would have never..." 

"Consented?" Tyrion finished for him.

No! Barristan tried to let him take it in, although it was clear that he had heard the rumours and he wasn’t even sure what he could add to these rumours that was in any way proof.

“But, just your looks, your eyes; one pure Lannister green, the other..." he hesitated for a brief moment "black they say, I would say deep dark amethyst; you hair: golden, platinum and a medium brown... But it is not just that", he went on "your affinity with dragons, your temperament. You seem to have Tywin's wits and Aerys' passion." 

"And was there any good in either man?", Tyrion wondered aloud, not feeling proud in the slightest, whatever the truth.

"Yes, there was. In both. Aerys was a fine King until well, some say until Dunskendale. In any case, it was only later that he began suspecting every one, alienating his friends, his supporters, even his own son. Well, you know the rest. As for Lord Tywin, no doubt you have heard how much he loved your mother. Her death hit him very deeply. Still laying the blame on an innocent infant was cruel and uncharacteristically for him, it lacked logic. It is not for me to say, my Lord, but your Lord Father was given a son good at battle but, like his king, oblivious to politics, and another, good at planning the battles and at playing at Court. Had you been my sons, I would have treasured you both."

Tyrion's eyes were becoming moist but the old knight chose to pretend not to have noticed. let not embarrass his friend.

Lord Lannister had a habit of dealing with uncomfortable situations by joking, this time though he favoured cynicism: "and so it goes that the gods, in their infinite wisdom, give children to those who cannot handle parenthood and make celibate knights of the ones who mayhaps could."

He replenished both their glasses and asked “So which one is it, the Mad King or the Cruel Lord of Casterly Rock?”

"Does it matter that much? now, after all is done and dusted. Learn from both their successes and their mistakes but do not allow melancholy to beat you. You are strong, young still and, I suspect, there is a plan out there for you. If you want the wolf girl, fight for her."

"She despises me, she abandoned me and let me out to hang dry."

"Tyrion, now... You said yourself she could not had acted alone, you know who pulled the strings. Besides, your family murdered hers, give her time... If you are right and Baelish is her tutor, she will make you a fine wife. If my advice is of any value to you, don't waste your life chasing rainbows that are too far in your past for you to reach, seek what could be at your fingertips, also for the benefit of your house and hers."

"Still, sorry ser, but you started a rather tantalising tale about my origins but never got your final opinion on the matter."

“My apologies, my Lord,” Barristan said. “ I should not had open that old can of warms, still I thought I ought to tell you what I have always suspected. I am no Maester and I do not know how these things can possibly happen, if at all, when this is all over, ask the Citadel, for I know you will be curious. I could be mad, but you are a very learned man; if you ever get the chance, look into the word “chimera.”

As they appeared relaxed over a drink and highly involved in conversation, a dagger came from nowhere. Tyrion unsheathed his own blade. The Green Grace!!! or someone disguised as her.

How had she gotten in??? Barristan had always known that she was likely to be the Harpy all along, he had known the whole of the nobility were but that move was bold.

Tyrion's eyes opened up big as plates and, pretty much automatically, threw his own dagger back at the opportunist attacker then he darted towards his side. His little friend ripped off his sleeve and tried, as if possessed, to contain the blood coming from his chest. Everything felt surreal but he gather he was likely in and out of consciousness. 

As his consciousness returned, even so momentarily, the Green Grace shivered under Drogon’s presence above the pyramid. The Targaryen Queen was back, if only to witness the aftermath of what had gone without her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, again another background chapter with a few wild cards thrown around. Although I said I was likely to follow the show more than the books for the Meereen plot, sorry books it is so far in the main, although, as per the show, Tyrion is now settled into a high advisory role, much sooner that it can happen in the books. As per the wild theories, once again, the POV characters and their interlocutors speak for themselves and not for the author... Granted I have read a huge amount of theories on various themes and oftentimes I voice them via my characters. For now, I would rather leave the "chimera" theory (a really obscure one, I must admit, but one that after my initial total disbelief seems more and more GRRM to me) in the shadows or for you guys to pursue, if it interests you, or to leave well alone, if not. I am extremely likely to re-address this but possibly not for a while... Still, if someone is really curious as to my inspiration let me know and I will see if I can contact you privately with the theory ;) Comments really appreciated, good and bad and medium lol. By the way, I did get a lovely comment here, and didn't noted the name of the reader at the time, then stupidly proceeded to amend the chapter and instead of typing over I deleted it and typed over my Word original file lol so the comment went... I am soo sorry...


	4. Arya - Danger in the Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morality is one thing, truth another... The truth is no better friend than your most juicy whore, on a good day. No truth, nor honour will keep you save my Lord. Both served my father badly. I serve another God, my own and gods old and new save you, sir, if you dare get in my way! If you should prevail, then what I said was folly... for that would be mortality instead of morality... and only the Stranger knows what to do with that.

Arya woke up in the middle of the night, startled. “A bad dream, no more,” she tried to tell herself, or was it? She had enjoyed the hunt, the smell of newly caught prey, the freedom… But she had seen more. Blood! She took the best of the spoils and it was satisfying! She had led them, she knew, her and her pack, back in Westeros… a million moons away…

“Hurry” she told herself or you are like to miss your own rape.

Mercedene, Mercy for short, had been trained with the mummers long enough. Like with the others, she had become attached to the people there. She had been a beggar, she had sold cockles and prawns, she had even been blind. She had met most of the prostitutes in the proud city of Braavos and the money lenders, and the rest. All of them. Even the SeaLord contenders.

She was still in training though…

The SeaLord of Braavos was not long for this world, she understood. She hated playing what she had thought was her sister (although she told no one) until Lady Stork, the lead mummer, had said that she was not the Imp’s wife but his lover, in the play.

She had made other friends there too, the young actress, for one, even the lecherous dwarf that she was sure was meant to play his brother by law.

And then, she saw him, blunt as you may, there for her taking. “Swift as a snake, quiet as silence” But a girl could not be both, she thought. “Damn it Sirio, even if you are dead!”

Her fellow young actress smiled.

“Never mind you, she said” “I am going to fuck that one, he is very good looking…You stay here. If he is that good, I promise to share.”

“Mercy, no! Izembarro will have your hide. He is a nobleman of the emboy…”

The gods were good. Too good to be true! She had him at range and she was not far from flowering. Izembarro and his crew had been told what she wanted them to hear.

“A man on her list, and sooo vulnerable…”

Raff, the Sweetling! She put her hand up his cock and asked for money. His fellow guard raised an eyebrow, but if needed be, she would have to do both.

The idiotic man did not hesitate and follow her to her apartments. Mercy had insisted on her apartments, shabby as they were!

As she offered her tiny teats, she cut the vein in his upper leg that connected to his heart, whatever that was called. 

The deed was done. The repercussions would be huge unless she could give the Faceless Men what they had wanted all the way.  
She took her pleasure, even to the point to ask Ralf about her friend back on the road! She took her pleasure in a way that she was sure the faceless would not approve!

Izembarro expected her back and she had ensured or it when she told her colleague where she was going... The emboy would be expected to had killed the teenager prostitute but that was not her plan. She had ensured that two people knew he was going with him for a "fuck." When she had thought about whether she could kill him or not and get away with it, that had been her plan for sure.

She hated Izembarro to be in trouble but she had to have her "kill." Besides she could make it better for all. She had the key and the SeaLord was dying and these Lannister arseholes were trying something she could prevent. The loan!!! She could make it just fine for the Faceless, but why??? She knew the lot of it and why one SeaLord wannabe had back that! All she had to do is steal the money and sail away! No-one would suspect a mummer girl lol She felt so powerful she almost orgasm at the thought! Fuck you SeaLord, fuck you Iron Throne, fuck you Faceless Men. The last time she was seen was on the arm of sir Harys Swyft. Neither the best courtesan in Braavos or him lived to tell the tale.

But she had stolen much and more! A key; yes any arsehole in the town with a bit of money had a commemorative key, they real keys, though, 23! 22 too many she thought but she had one of them! From the people that founded the city, against slavers and what nots! Still, one of the 23 and mayhaps the only one today who knew what that could open.

Before she went to sleep that night, the Emissary from the Lannister had her in her shoulder, the high prostitute he had been provided with before drowning in the sea… A key to the Face of Masks, and a key to the Iron Bank could open doors indeed!

Before she knew, all hell had broken loose. The SeaLord was dead, as expected, and nout to do with her. The Emisary and the Black Pearl, or the great-great-great-grandaughter of the Black Pearl lol and for that Arya could not play innocence. But more fool her if they caught her.

The Faceless would want more than the hide Izembarro would want, she knew. Izembarro may had been sweetened with wine and maybe her maidenhood. The Faceless would not be satisfied with that, hence her plan B. She had not just stolen a key to the city but a key to their secrets…

“Catch me if you may, you cunts” she sneered as she impersonated the Black Pearl, took the contract regarding the Lannister gold and paid a pirate the highest fee he had ever gotten in his life for transporting a passenger to Westeros.

The Facelesss would hound her forever and yet, she was only one of 23 with direct access to their secrets!


End file.
